


Dubious and Interesting

by entanglednow



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-05
Updated: 2009-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, no, there's no handling -" Chuck thinks about it. "Well, ok, there's a lot of manhandling, but only ever in a dragging, pushing or hauling me out of danger sort of way."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dubious and Interesting

"What are you doing?"

Tyler Martin is stretched out on Chuck's bed, boots crossed at the ankle, flicking through his CDs with a frown on his face.

"The living room was hurting my eyes, I think it was all the cushions."

"You don't like cushions?"

Tyler ignores him and dumps the rest of the pile with a clatter. Then shakes his head at him in a horribly disappointed sort of way, that Chuck has no idea how to respond to. So he retrieves his CDs, before they end up all over the floor. Then spends a moment trying to find somewhere to put them. Tyler watches him with the air of a man who's never witnessed simple daily tasks done before. Which makes Chuck feel oddly self-conscious, not that he doesn't feel that a lot, it's just usually less weird.

Today has been a very strange day.

Tyler snatches up his wrist and pulls, and it's insistent in a way that people who just don't get rejected can get away with, and Chuck _never_ can. He doesn't have the energy to protest, so he flops down beside him, arm crushing one of the bright red tails of Tyler's jacket, there's a button in his elbow but Tyler doesn't move over an inch, leaving them pressed together, boot knocking against the side of Chuck's leg in quick, friendly little taps.

"Your fellow agents are still sorting out all the covert stuff I expect."

Chuck lets his shoes swing back and forth at the end of the bed, and thinks about exactly where Casey and Sarah are now. Something spy related, possibly burying the bodies?

"Technically they're my handlers."

"Your _handlers?_ " Tyler makes a noise. "Oh that sounds dirty, tell me that's even half as dirty as it sounds?"

"Oh, well no, there's no handling -" Chuck thinks about it. "Well ok, there's a lot of _manhandling_ but only ever in a dragging, pushing or hauling me out of danger, sort of way."

"The danger you seem quite fond of throwing yourself into," Tyler points out. "I noticed that, I do notice things occasionally you know."

"Sometimes my self preservation instincts refuse to work in the face of danger," Chuck explains. Which always sounds better in his head. In his head it sounds brave, out loud it always sounds stupid.

Tyler prods at him with a boot. "Is that a hedgehog in the middle of the road, sort of thing?"

"That's really unflattering," Chuck tells him, and he'd probably be hurt, if it didn't feel a lot of the time like it might be true. What were they talking about? Oh yes! "But no, there's no handling, at all, of an inappropriate nature. There's no inappropriate handling."

Tyler grunts. "Shame that, crying shame. Blonde on one side, GI Joe on the other. You've got to have thought about it. I'd have thought about it." There's a pointed silence, then a noise which Chuck is going to describe as _dirty._ "I just did and really I can't believe you've never thought about it?"

Chuck tips his head over, almost gets an eye full of spiky blond hair.

"If I had thought about it, hypothetically, I wouldn't ever admit to it, for fear that they'd hurt me."

Tyler raises an eyebrow. "And not in dubious and interesting sexual ways I take it - and now I'm thinking about it again, and it's _better._ "

Chuck frowns, bizarrely jealous.

Tyler laughs and digs an elbow into the side of his chest like he knows exactly what he's thinking.

"Still, you don't have to baby-sit me any more. I can go back to my normal life, or what passes for normal in my life, which is to say fucking amazing and no longer having to worry about random assassinations. And you can go back to being handled. Or _not_ being handled, as the case may be, though now I've put the idea in your head who knows, eh?"

And that's true isn't it. Chuck isn't going to be able to think of anything else now due to the complex laws of psychology.

"That's cruel, really, it is, like I don't have enough to worry about without random pornographic snapshots appearing from out of nowhere. And do you know what Casey will do to me if he catches me thinking things like that. I swear sometimes he can read my mind."

Oh god, Chuck hopes Casey can't read his mind.

Tyler appears in his frame of vision, all upside down hair, smirking mouth and the faint traces of eyeliner. Which normally Chuck finds overdone, in a stylistic sort of way, but it's just an echo of darkness around the edges now and he thinks he might finally understand how that works. And there's something almost feral about Tyler's expression.

"What?"

Instead of an answer there's a hand on his stomach, where his shirt has ridden up, skin and gold, and the clink of bracelets, all the same temperature, and Chuck really shouldn't be as surprised as he is.

He tries to think of something to say.

Apparently he waits too long because Tyler makes an agreeable sort of noise and leans down. The rough drag of beard across his face is peculiar and alien from the other side. The strange angle, and the fact that Tyler is clearly smiling while he kisses him, makes it almost surreal. But then the hand that was on his stomach is shifting upwards, dragging his shirt with it, and Chuck knows that if he's going to say something then _this_ is probably the time.

He tips his head back until he can speak, finds he's over-estimated his ability to form words quite yet, he swallows and tries again.

"What are you doing?"

Tyler's fingers are still moving, dipping between his ribs like he finds them fascinating, and Chuck is trying to pretend the sensation isn't sending little shivers all the way through him.

"You have no booze in your house, and no dancing girls, I'm improvising."

"With me?" Chuck sounds disturbingly like a scandalised housewife.

"Yes, with you."

"You really do do _whatever_ you want don't you?"

"I'll have you know I have a lot of fun doing what I want. Also, that wasn't actually a no."

"I was working up to a no," Chuck protests.

"Were you now?" There's a wealth of dubious disbelief in the question, and that accent is apparently really good at dubious disbelief. But if forced to admit it, then no, Chuck doesn't think he was working up to a no. Though he's not quite sure why. The bed shifts, and a knee slides over Chuck's waist, digs in the other side, as Tyler hauls himself up and over, before settling, with not a little smugness, across his lap. He's heavy in all the right places and his hands seem to have an unhealthy fascination with Chuck's skin. Chuck's skin seems to echo the sentiment, and that might be why he hasn't said no, why he hasn't done anything at all.

"Guns pointed at you all the time, life on the line, must get your adrenaline going, must make every single fuck feel like the best you ever had."

Chuck's throat has seized on whatever world of garbled denial he was going to pull out.

"I don't really, when I'm not -"

"And I bet you're _enthusiastic,_ " Tyler wraps his tongue around every consonant in the word, drags it out, makes it sound obscene. He tilts his head afterwards and smiles like he knows a secret. "There's a lot to be said for enthusiasm, for a willingness to learn and to try new things." Chuck's belt slithers out of his jeans in one long hush of sound. Where he'd have to spend five minutes tugging to get it free, Tyler just pulls in one movement, all hands and half open mouth, and Chuck doesn't think he has any sort of defence against that.

Chuck is aware, distantly, that he's putting up less of a fight against this than he did with the lovely girls who left him dangling on the outside of an elevator, and that's a thought that makes him inhale as his body decides that this might be a situation that calls for adrenaline too.

Though inhaling also drags his stomach away from the front of his jeans and Tyler decides that's an invitation. Because now the button and zip are both open, which is generally more than far enough for Chuck to start politely protesting and trying to find some sort of exit. Only this is his bedroom so that isn't going to work and it's different when you're not undercover, or fearing for your life, or suspect that the person you're about to sleep with might be a spy.

And he's officially lost control of this situation. When he envisaged a night off this wasn't exactly what he had in mind. This was way, way outside of what he'd had in mind.

Tyler's hand slides in the front of his boxers, warm and narrow and not shy at all about how it slides all the way down, curls round him, and tightens.

"Oh god!"

"Say yes, go on, you'll have fun I promise. I'm a master at fun."

"Tyler -"

There's a short little laughing noise against his mouth, and then a kiss, that's as brief as it is dirty.

"My name is good, yes is better."

"I don't usually do this?" Chuck protests. He doesn't know where to put his hands, and Tyler is persuasive in oh so many ways, almost none of which are words.

Tyler laughs, tongue caught between his teeth.

"You should, you really should."

Which is permission, and encouragement, and Chuck's hands - which have behaved up until now - give in and slide up Tyler's waist.

The jacket is warm underneath, almost as warm as his skin when it slides off, and Chuck is aware that every tattoo is a possibility for a stream of information that he doesn't want, but he can't stop pushing. Until the jacket tumbles against his legs, and Tyler is warmer and thinner and closer, chains crushed against his own chest, skin warm and right there. One arm curls round his neck, until a hand can clench really, really tight in his hair.

Chuck didn't think he'd like that, at all, but it turns out he was wrong.

Then his hands are full of bare, stretching back, which he can, if he tries hard enough, dig his fingers into and hold still. And he thinks the noise he gets against his own mouth is good, really, really good, so he does it again.

The slide-squeak of leather against his skin is maddening, but when his hands stray down he discovers that they really are ridiculously, _indecently_ tight. Tight enough to be distracting for long moments when he realises that he can feel every single line without peeling it down.

But Tyler grunts impatience, so clearly that is actually on the agenda today. Chuck isn't entirely sure how he's supposed to get - but then Tyler slides back on his thighs, dragging the long warm curve of the waistband down just far enough that Chuck's fingers can touch a bare edge of hipbones when they drift down from the soft flesh of his waist. Tyler's hand wraps round his wrist, moves his hand, presses it down where the leather is stretched tight, and Chuck groans in sympathy, or maybe it's not _all_ sympathy because his fingers are tugging at the buttons, and pulling down the deep, embedded zip.

And somehow they get lost after that, not entirely sure whether he can get them off this way.

Tyler catches his hand again.

"Go on, it won't get you into trouble, I promise." There's a press of painted fingernails in the skin, encouraging his wrist down deeper. Shifting on Chuck's lap until there's enough space to let him down, to let him inside.

"Oh I don't know about that -" the air leaves his throat in a rush when Tyler pushes up with his hips and Chuck's fingers slide over the hard edge of his cock, leather pulled tight across the back of his hand.

He opens his mouth to say...something. Though Tyler apparently already knows him well enough to realise it's not going to be important, he snatches a handful of his hair and tugs his head up, and kisses him.

He tastes like something sharp and heavy, Chuck has the wet slide of it over his tongue when Tyler spreads it there, almost familiar curve of alcohol that doesn't burn his throat this time around. Then it's gone, replaced by a quick sting of pain in his lower lip, and then another kiss before he has a chance to protest.

Tyler moves Chuck's hands again, curls his fingertips round the waistband of his leather pants.

"Hold that," he tells Chuck in a voice that's all growl, then he slides back in a way that should be impossible, slithering free of the leather in a series of half amused, half dirty movements, while Chuck's knuckles drag across bare skin.

The leather pants eventually go over Tyler's shoulder, leaving Chuck with empty hands. It's really only sensible to find bare skin to settle them on, and the damp skin of Tyler's thighs seems like a good place. They open around him again, knees settling, then digging into the bed on either side of him.

Tyler rocks, one slow movement that looks a thousand times filthier than it should.

"Look at you, all fucking limbs, the things I could do to you." Chuck's boxers are dragged down his thighs, pushed off with a bare foot.

"What?" Chuck is finding Tyler's ability to undress him from the waist down without moving almost supernatural. He should probably be more scandalised at the fact that he's naked, because he doesn't usually do the surprise nudity thing with people he's only known for a few days, even if they are rock stars.

But then Tyler moves again, in that push-glide snake-like way that manages to scatter all of Chuck's sensible thoughts across the room.

"You're clearly a worrier," Tyler says sensibly, he points a finger at him. "So you stay up there and worry about whether or not you should be indulging in your baser urges. While I suck your cock." Chuck makes a slightly strangled noise when Tyler disappears, leaving his dishevelled spikes of hair in view and the sensation of a wet tongue curling and dragging down the skin of his chest.

He doesn't stay there long, hands pushing at Chuck's thighs until he can slide down between them, all mad hair and painted stretch of back and Chuck tries not to look but the tattoos are _everywhere_.

His brain, thankfully, behaves itself but Chuck finds something else to look at just in case.

Which just happens to be Tyler's mouth. His tongue flicks out, drags over him, then flattens out and presses down, in a way that pushes a noise out of him. A noise that makes Tyler's eyes roll up to catch his own, makes his mouth break in a smile. Before his head tilts down again, his lips drop open and slide down his cock in one long obscene movement, which Chuck's almost certain he _will not_ be able to look away from.

Tyler knows what he's doing, all strong dirty suction, and shifting hands. And there is, possibly, no way to stay still under that, though Chuck tries, he really, really does.

He says _'yes'_ a lot then, which is probably a little late, but Tyler seems to appreciate it anyway, appreciate it and reward him, in thoroughly indecent ways that Chuck hasn't experienced since college, or possibly only in his filthier dreams.

Until Chuck is left in a mess of pillows, groaning and spread out, weak and damp, like some sort of stranded airplane crash survivor. He really can't think of a better description, orgasm has cruelly taken all his words.

Tyler is balanced on his thigh, looking smug and dishevelled, and Chuck will admit that he might, ever so slightly, see what the screaming fans see in him.

"You're probably the first bloke who hasn't made some sort of subtle attempt to fuck my mouth," Tyler says.

Chuck groans pathetically when his body tries to take an interest in the words, and fails spectacularly.

"Jesus, you with your words."

Tyler laughs, half sound and half warmth, across the skin of his stomach, and then he slithers back up, finds the relaxed line of Chuck's mouth, and promptly debauches it, making it taste interesting in the process. That particularly seems to amuse Tyler.

His cock pointedly glides, then shoves, into the skin of his stomach.

It's probably impolite to haul a rock star around but Chuck does it anyway, pulls until Tyler's legs slide open round his waist and his mouth is wide open where Chuck can get at it. Which is briefly, horribly distracting, because Tyler _does_ things with his tongue that Chuck's fairly certain he learned in dubious places.

Then Chuck takes a breath and pushes. Tyler hits the bed with a grunt that isn't quite protest, the end of it is downright slutty.

Chuck now has absolute proof that men can be slutty. Granted not proof he could ever show anyone, or tell anyone about, much like the 'saving the world' thing. But he can live with that. And it has been a while since he did this. But Chuck, is, as always, enthusiastic.

He makes enthusiastic an art form.

It's really, really wet, but the noises he's getting aren't anywhere close to complaint.

One of Tyler's legs ends up over his shoulder, heel digging into the skin in a way that hurts in a distant sort of way. And one of Tyler's hands ends up far too deep in his hair, that hurts in a different sort of way, but Chuck's probably not going to mention how he kind of likes it.

After that it gets really messy,

He's probably going to leave bruises on the thigh pressed into his shoulder, which he thinks he should feel bad about but he just _can't._

Then it's briefly loud, before Chuck's swallowing in a way he does remember, and the leg over his shoulder is abruptly a dead weight.

He slides out from underneath it, and Tyler makes a little noise of protest, which turns into a grumble when it's ignored completely.

Chuck has never been very good at looking smug, so he just looks dishevelled instead.

It seems to work.

"You." Tyler points a finger at him, then gives up, and throws both his arms out instead. "I told you didn't I, enthusiastic, bloody hell!"

There's a pause for breath and Tyler makes a shuddery pleased sound.

"Give me five - twenty - half an hour, and I'm going to mistreat you some more."

Chuck finds some haphazard space to lay, Tyler throws a leg over his waist.

Chuck's bed is comfortable, he never realised quite how comfortable before. He gets to be comfortable for about five minutes before Tyler is moving about, and Chuck is forced into seeing what he's doing.

He's found a pen somewhere and has slid back between Chuck's legs.

Before Chuck can ask he bites the cap off of the pen and straightens out Chuck's thigh, before lowering his hand.

The wet tickly slide is a very strange sensation, Chuck keeps his leg still, but tries to bend down, and see what Tyler is doing all the same.

"Are you autographing my leg?"

"Not just autographing," Tyler says around the pen cap. "I'm writing you a dirty limerick too. If I have enough room I might even draw you a puppy."

The pen drifts round a little further and Chuck makes an involuntary little 'ah' noise.

Tyler eyes him, teeth sharp where they dig into plastic, and repeats the movement.

"I kind of like it when you wriggle like that."

Chuck is half tempted to do again, just to see what it gets him.

Tyler raises an eyebrow, like he should know better than to go for slutty in front of a master of it.

"First one to be capable of anything filthy gets to be on top," Tyler leans forward far enough to bite the edge of Chuck's jaw, and Chuck's breath shivers out of him.

He just might win this one.


End file.
